Wild, Chaotic, and Somewhat Vulnerable
by giacomo's opus
Summary: Joanne Jefferson knows that if she had to choose which beat she wanted to live her life too, it wouldn't be much of a choice at all. Because Joanne Jefferson's beat would be a little wild, mostly chaotic, and if she looked hard enough... somewhat vulnerable.


A/N: It's been awhile since I have written anything else for others to read, but it feels good to see what you think. Angel is alive in my fic because lets be honest the world needs a lot more Angels.

* * *

She moves to the beat of her own drum.

A beat that's wild, chaotic, and you know if you listen close enough, vulnerable - a vulnerability she hides in the most secret of places, her heart.

But you know her better than anyone, and it's there underneath drama queen moments and diva seeking attention. It's there and it makes you want to take her in your arms and never let go.

Everything about her screams non-conformity, her tight signature leather, curse spewing (and amazing talented if you do say so yourself) tongue, and don't give a shit attitude.

Yet, you don't know how you can both love and hate these qualities with so much passion at the same time.

But then you think about it again and conclude hate is not the right word because no matter the pain she causes you at times, you could never hate her.

You decide on 'dislike greatly' mainly because you can't come up with anything better, even though you are a lawyer and words are suppose to be your thing.

Pinpointing the moment you fell in love with her is strangely difficult, but somewhere along the rollercoaster that is (maybe 'was' is better now) relationship it happened even if you were disheveled, clutching the bars till your knuckles turned white all while trying not to spill your lunch.

And, Christ did you fall hard! Like a boulder dropped over a cliff, no where to go but down…

Maybe though that too is the wrong description, considering it sounds like you are comparing love to suicide…

You think harder, staring intently into the dark potent liquid in your mug. It's too early for this loud of introspection.

But the term love and suicide you come to reason are aptly appropriate in many ways. No, not because being wither her makes you want to string up a noose over the shower rail, but because you feel like a part of you died the day you fell in love with her.

The part of you that had become your own conformity. Your straight laced, never put one foot out of the box ways. Ways that had been imprinted in your head for as long as you could remember. Act this way, say this, don't do that. Everything that got you to where you were but left you with nothing that mattered.

It makes you laugh now that all it took was for a girl to come into your life to throw 30 years of conformity out the window. But you did and that part of you died so part of you could live.

Someone is now tapping you on the shoulder, and your coffee almost meets the front of your shirt, but experience with a certain diva's sneak up tactics has trained your reflexes. The person disturbing your thoughts is familiar but their name evades you. You motion them to sit even though it is the furthest thing from what you want them to do.

"Fuck off," comes to mind first, and you blanch as you realize that is exactly what the girl who has invaded your thoughts all morning would say (without thought or care you might add). You smirk now and shake your head. Crap you forgot someone is now sitting across from you… Carol, Cindy…something with a C

Yep, she's looking at you questioningly, but you cant bring yourself to care. Conversation ensues and you find yourself comparing all the ways this women you apparently knew at Harvard is not Maureen…

Mouth too small…

Eyes too beady…

Laugh to soft…

Talking without censure… well maybe they have something in common.

And suddenly you have to see her. The feeling of at this exact moment should perhaps make you worry at least a little because you are a grown women for christ sake and definitely not needy or impulsive. But it doesn't seem to matter because you have already thrown a few bills on the table and are skirting past the bust boy leaving your… Carol, Cindy, something with a C looking deeply befuddled.

You jump into the first cab you see and ok maybe you shoved that guy a little to get it, but before the yellow car even stops you are yelling out directions. The cabby seems to feel your urgency, it is New York after all, or perhaps the fact he has a half-crazed looking women in his back seat, but hey that's New York too.

Fifteen minutes later and the speed of cars is not moving fast enough for you, and after yet again tossing more bills you are on foot in the New York winter, and moving with impressive speed (Doc Martins were a solid choice this morning).

Your brain connects with your feet and works off pure memory towards your destination.

The next thing you know you are knocking and no one is answering. You're bouncing with anticipation like a small child Christmas morning. Finally you hear the distinctive click and a clearly sleep tousled Roger goes almost wide eyed at the sight of you.

"Joanne?" He questions… yep that's definitely shock in his voice.

And now you feel stupid for doing this. What the hell were you thinking coming here?

He cuts of your silent rant.

"What are you doing here?" Seems he has ESP. The rocker's tone isn't curious anymore, anger seems to have crept in there somewhere.

"Oh um," great here we go with the lawyer being terrible with words again, "Is Maureen here?" you finally get out.

And if possible his eyes get wider. He doesn't get the chance to answer though as another voice interrupts.

"Roger who's at the door?" the groggy voice asks.

He still cant seem to recover his voice so instead throws the loft door all the way open.

Mimi's gasp makes you really want to crawl into a hole. Has it really been that long?

"Jo?" the dancer asks stepping forward.

Maybe it has been that long because its seems like she's forgotten your whole name. But then you remember that's what they all use to call you. A nickname of sorts.

"Hey Mimi," you manage before skinny arms are cutting off your air supply.

"It's been so long! Where have you been? How have you been?" the dancer sends a barrage of questions your way only to be cut off by Roger placing his arm around her shoulders.

"She's looking for Maureen," he tells his girlfriend, however his eyes are locked on you. The expression he is giving you makes you want to find that hole again.

"She's not here," Mimi admits almost sadly and you feel your heart drop to your feet.

You hadn't even though of this possibility. You had never known Maureen to live anywhere else other than at the loft or with you.

Then you remember exactly how long its been, and after 18 months maybe you don't know Maureen anymore.

This realization sends a chill down your spine. What if she's with someone? What if she is not even in New York? What if she moved to Canada?!

Ok so your irrational but can't seem to help yourself. Suddenly skinny arms are around you again and dampness is pressing itself against your cheek. Horrified you find it's because of your own tears. When did you start crying?

Comforting words are whispered as a gentle hand rubs your back and you desperately try to shut off the water works.

You step back with an undignified hiccup and want nothing more than to flee, but before you make it two steps a firm grip on your elbow stops you.

You turn to find the rocker, his gaze still hard but with a glimmer of sympathy passing his face.

"4th and Madison," he says as if it's the answer to all the questions in the world.

And then it sinks in, it is the answer to all your questions in the world.

You're down the stairs at a speed that would make Michael Johnson jealous, desperately trying to think what is on the corner of 4th and Madison.

Your side is on fire by the time you turn the corner on 4th and stop dead in your tracks before a rusty iron gate.

Of all the possibilities that ran through your mind on the 12 block journey, what you find is something beyond your imagination.

You are falling to your knees without consent, hands shooting out to grasp at the bars that connect to the metal placard at the top.

Through water filled eyes you are still able to read what its says, although you wish to whatever god you can that you weren't able to..

"Memorial Cemetery"

Your lungs stop working and you're sure your heart has ceased for too many beats to let you keep living, and yet somehow it's still working because of the crushing sensation it's causing in your chest.

You're not sure how long you kneel there, lungs struggling for breath, tears streaming unabashedly down your cheeks, but it's a sound that pulls you back together.

Not a sound, you decide, but a beat.

God it's a beautiful beat and almost eerily familiar.

You're running into traffic now not caring you almost became a hood ornament for a Land Rover.

The beat is getting stronger as you turn onto Madison.

Your feet decide you are moving too fast for them though, and they send you spilling onto the sidewalk just as the beat stops.

Disoriented and panting you search desperately for the beat even though you are still splayed haphazardly on the pavement.

It's not there, but unexpectedly strong arms are and they are pulling you upright.

You struggle to shake them off, you have to find that beat, but they aren't letting go.

You whirl around about to knock the shit out of the person if they are trying to mug you. But once again the sight has you stopping mid swing.

"Whoa easy there Chica," Angel's smile lights up her face.

But you cant return it and have instead catapulted yourself into the drag queen's strong embrace before she can say another word.

God you are such a mess, you haven't seen her in over 18 months, and are now uncontrollably crying in Angel's arms after a sudden desire, no need, to see your ex-fiancée who you find is now dead.

You are about to mumble an apology and try to save some shred of dignity, scratch that you are searching for that hole again to crawl in and weep like an infant, but a voice stops everything.

Now you know you have lost it, because it's hers – light and attention seeking, with a little rasp at the end.

"Well look what the cat dragged in."

Turns out you are not going crazy (or maybe you are for hallucinating dead people), but as you turn from Angel's embrace there she sits on the steps, drumsticks in hand and pickle tub between her knees.

You can't move. It's too much, everything is just so much.

The breakup where you said things you regret, the months you locked yourself away ignoring her and your bohemian family. The desire to kill Roger for scaring the shit out of you today although you can't help but feel you deserved it.

And suddenly it is all melting away as she flashes this huge grin of hers sending your heart back into rhythm.

"Come play with us Pookie!" she says as if you haven't ever been apart, and in a way you think maybe you never were.

There is so much to say to each other, so much to apologize for and work though, but right now you find yourself joining her on those steps as Angel passes you some sticks and a tub.

And slowly you play and allow your beat to melt into hers – wild, chaotic, vulnerable…

And it's perfect.

A/N: Please let me know what you think- good, bad, or ugly.


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